Ghosts
by INeverExplainAnything
Summary: Ghosts were sad things, they'd said, pearly white and thin. A mere memory of a tortured soul, always hunting for something just beyond its reach.


Ghosts

There had been a time when she'd believed in ghosts, the kind that rattled chains and spoke of impending doom. She had been told these ghosts would come in the night and steal away her soul, and then she'd be left drifting through the world with no anchor and an empty heart. Ghosts were sad things, they'd said, pearly white and thin. A mere memory of a tortured soul, always hunting for something just beyond its reach.

This had been told to frighten - to make the heart race and the skin on one's hands grow cold and clammy with fear. Ghosts were a fancy to terrify children into staying in their beds at night. But these stories had not frightened her. She'd been intrigued.

In the days of before, she had scurried up into the attic - Raoul trailing behind, arms full of bonbons. In there, she would throw the windows open and let the moonlight come streaming in. It would shine over the huge trunks, the old locks rusted with age, and their contents slowly turning to dust before the motes floated out the open window. It was only a small space, but she had made it her own. A few dried flowers adorned the room and paper chains of ballerinas hung from the old beams. The gentle breeze would make the paper ballerinas appear to move. They'd laugh and fall down onto a pile of blankets, staring up at the ceiling to watch the ballerinas dance.

Sometimes Raoul would bring with him a small lantern and he would tell stories while they ate the chocolate they had stolen from the kitchen as the candle light flickered menacingly against the walls. She had loved to hear those stories, she had sat bolt upright then, drinking in every word he spoke. It wasn't always ghost stories, sometimes there were witches, goblins, vampires. The ones about ghosts had always enthralled her the most and so she'd ask all manner of questions. Maybe, she thought, these ghosts were more than forgotten fragments of a lost soul. What did these lost souls search for? Was it love? Or revenge? Whether it be a beautiful reason or a dark one, she had no care. She just wanted to know. It could have been just guidance, a gentle hand to help. Possibly they were just seeking an angel to take them to Heaven. Then she would smile, an _angel_.

Her father had told stories, too. Not the kind Raoul told. No, these had been fairy tales - beautiful stories. He would play the violin, the melody always floating up the house and making it's way into the attic. She would leave the paper ballerinas to dance and the chocolates to melt when she heard it. Winding her way down flights of stairs she'd find her father sitting on the old chaise lounge, his eyes closed as he played. She would tip toe in, so not to disturb him, but he would always know. He would open his eyes and smile at her before continuing to play and she would sing along. After the music had faded, her father would tell her those beautiful stories. Her favourite had always been about the Angel of Music. And she'd pray every night before bed, wanting to know this angel. And in her dreams, she did know him and he knew her. Then she would wake - possibly from a creak on the stair. And she'd believe it was her angel. The whisper of trees against her window could have been have been his wings whispering in flight. She had prayed, prayed with everything she had, for her angel to show his face.

These tales of angels had been left behind when her father had died. Life had held no meaning. There was no more music, just the whisper of voices. Always sorry, always pitying. The voice she'd once prided herself on was nothing more than a distant memory. Singing while her father had played the violin had been a great joy, now singing was nothing but a chore.

Until one day, a voice had spoken. It had not pitied her, or apologised to her. No, it had demanded that her voice stop hiding in the shadows of grief. Blindly, she had listened and handed over her soul. The angel had given her purpose once more. However, she had learned that there was no angel. Those beautiful stories her father had told her had not been true. She'd been foolish. For she had gazed upon her angel and a demon had stared back.

That cold mask - nothing but unfeeling marble, except the eyes. Those eyes. How they had frightened her, not just because there he was - the Opera Ghost - but because in them was something else. A tender look that was just as frightening as his harsh words had been. Maybe even more so. There was nothing but dread now. Her dreams had been lost, left to drown in the dark canals of the Opera House. Now, her life was on the line. To be dangled in front of a madman as bait. Was this it? Would she meet her fate and become like the ghosts she'd heard about? Would she forever wander the labyrinth of passages that made up the Paris Opera as nothing more than a lost soul? It wasn't even a matter of 'would she' but 'could she'. Did she dare betray the very man who had inspired her and given her life meaning once more?

Yes, there had been a time when she had believed in ghosts. There was no use for belief now. Ghosts were real. They haunted her every day. One had stolen her dreams. For in her dreams he had sung to her, held her. Tender touches had captivated her heart. Always accompanied by soft whispers in her ear, always saying the same thing - just one single word.

 _Christine..._

* * *

 **A/N** Just a short little story - not much of a story, more a vignette - but I wanted to give my brain some exercise and write exactly 1000 words. This is the first time writing for something other than The Sound of Music too.

I own nothing, tra-la-la.


End file.
